Reflected Light
by BrokenKestral
Summary: A reflection on the meanings of the names Lucy, Susan, Edmund, and Peter. Update: I'm adding chapters for Eustace, Jill, Digory, and Polly, because of Laura Andrews' request.
1. Light

Disclaimer: I own not the rights to Narnia, England, Lucy, her siblings, or even light itself. But George MacDonald once wrote that "Love makes the only myness," the only ownership, and so in many ways these things are mine; mine to give away, so others may love them and own them as well.

OOOOO

"In him was life, and the life was the light of men." John 1:4

Lucy first noticed how light changed a room during the war, before Narnia; she was young. She walked into the parlor, her favorite room in which to play. But blackout curtains hung over the windows, and Lucy didn't think the room was beautiful anymore. Her young mind wondered what had changed it, what made all the beauty go away. Then her mother came behind her, and while Lucy was staring and turning in a slow circle, her mother pushed the curtains aside and light flooded the room. And Lucy ran to the window beside her mother, and her mother laughed as Lucy danced in the sudden influx of light. The parlor and the girl came alive in the light.

In their home, light brushed over furniture and made its color alive; light danced across the clean carpet and filled the floor with roses; light shone through the glass ornaments and cast their rainbows across the walls. Light made everything beautiful.

Even in other homes, ones her mother took her to when her mother went to help, ones with mud on the counters and dishes on the floors, light made the beauty as evident as the dirt. Even dishes on the floor cast rainbows.

But she was too small to pull back the curtains, and her mother didn't always remember, not with four kids to care for and a host of other families to help. So there were mornings Lucy would wait in the darkness of the parlor, sitting quietly, waiting for the light.

Peter, who noticed the quiet of the parlor as he passed by, paused and came in. He caught her sad glances at the windows, and guessing why, he pulled them aside for her. And at her sudden, radiant smile, he could not help but smile back, as glad for her happiness as she was for the light. It became their ritual every morning, the first thing they did, rushing down the stairs to the parlor, Lucy running as fast as she could to see light flood the room; and Peter running so he could see the moment light flood her face. The moment light brought them both happiness.

It never changed for the two of them. Even as the war went on, and food grew more tasteless, and Edmund scowled at her from the doorway, and happiness shut itself out of her mother's face like the blackout curtains shut out light, she and Peter still had a moment of happiness every morning, happiness not even a war could take away.

Then they went to Narnia, and Lucy learned of people who shed silvery light in a dance in the heavens, and she loved learning the light's design. She thrilled to find the way light rippled through Narnia's waters and made the world below it beautiful, from the sandy floor to the flashes on a mermaid's graceful tail. And best of all, she found the source of light, Aslan Himself, who created all the light in Narnia and had His own golden light that calmed and gave the deepest joy she'd ever known, light that lit the very hearts of His own.

When they first came back to England she didn't miss the light so much; she found it shining through the leaves of England's trees, falling gently on the floor through the windows, and if the trees did not have dryads, the trees still grew from the light. And she found it again in the stars and moonlight, and she would watch them from the windows, curled up on a ledge in a little girl's body. Sometimes Susan would join her, the two of them quiet, and sometimes Edmund would pass by (no longer scowling, but giving her the smile he had just for her, no matter how late he stayed up working), but best of all was when Peter would find her sleeping there, and carry her to bed, leaving the drapes drawn in her window so the light would fall on her face.

Peter. Of all his titles, she loved _Lord Protector_ best. Peter, her older brother.

But then they went back to London.

The light in London could be ugly, Lucy reflected. Walking through its grey streets the first time, she hadn't noticed, too absorbed with the way her mother's face lit up, the way it smiled, the way happiness poured from her smile as if Aslan Himself had placed it there.

But later, as she went on errands for her mother to baker, store, or other families, Lucy found herself looking for the light that was green, gold, glowing red, or even clear in the blueness of the sky. But all too often all she found was grey. And it wore on her, the absence of the light she had known, the absence of beauty and color and wonder. And she became quieter, pausing at the top of stairs, waiting a moment in doorways, looking for something she wasn't even aware she missed. She never found it, and she'd enter the room and forget she was looking for it as she attempted to bring light anyway, with words and love, into her loved ones' faces. And she so often succeeded, and so lit her own.

But her siblings noticed, and met, and discussed this change in their youngest ruler, and gravely decided to change it.

So one morning Lucy woke to the sound of Peter's voice outside her door, asking her with all the grave courtesy he had learned, to grace him with her presence so they could run down to the parlor. And Lucy laughed, with the joy of youth and the gratefulness of wisdom, for the memory of her brother at what had once given her happiness, and she threw off her covers and joined him. And the grave smile on his face brightened to that of a boy, when she pulled his hand and the two of them ran, ran, ran down the hall, down the stairs, and to the parlor door.

And at the open door she checked herself, because hung once more on the windows were the blackout curtains her mother had taken down at the war's ending, and the room was dark. Peter's reassuring hands landed on her shoulders, and she felt him nod into her hair, and her other siblings' hands drew the curtains back. Light flooded the room.

Flooded the crimson carpet Susan had laid on the floor, haloed the burnished wooden lion Edmund had placed on the glass table with a golden light, and cast rainbows all over the walls from the glass prisms Peter had hung. The room was alive with color and light, and the overwhelming joy in Lucy's smile made all three of her siblings laugh. "For you, Lu," Peter said.

And she ran to the other two, catching their hands, pulling them around the table, her dancing eyes calling Peter to join. And in the light of the morning the four of them twirled, in a room filled with color and light, and they laughed as they danced, and sung a Narnian song, and gave thanks to the Lion for life.

And they left the parlor that way (their mother didn't mind), and Lucy found it to be her haven, her place to seek the Lion, her place to draw when it rained, and it was made more beautiful yet by the memory of her sibling's love. Because Lucy knew that love was its own kind of light; a light that reflected the giver of light and of life.


	2. Graceful Lily

Disclaimer: If I created the flowers, I'd probably have genius enough to create Narnia too; but I didn't create and do not own either. I'm merely bringing their nuances to light.

A/N: Susan means "Graceful Lily." A few of the flower sites I went to said lilies are associated with death, meaning innocence restored after death. Trying to incorporate that, this turned out sadder, in a gentle way, than I meant it to. Some day I shall have to write a tale of Susan and joy.

A/N2: I wasn't intending on making this a series, but curiosity led me to look up the definitions of the other "children's" names. And I was curious to see if I could write stories for all of them. We'll see how it turns out.

Chapter 2: Flowers

OOOOO

One morning when Mother was rocking Lucy in the rocking chair that creaked and groaned like music, I asked her why she chose _Lucy_. And she smiled and said she didn't choose Lucy, but God sent Lucy to us. In her words, I shook my head and said, no, not the girl (pointing at my sister), _Lucy_. And with the intuition mothers must possess to figure out their children, she understood I was talking about Lucy's name. And she said she chose it because the light had fallen on Lucy's bed in the hospital, the big building Lucy came from, and Lucy had laughed. And _Lucy_ means light. And I thought that over for a minute, and then asked why she chose _Susan_. And she said the first thing she had seen, when she had felt well enough and bored enough to take note of the world again, was a tall young woman carrying long-stemmed white lilies with both hands, and in the woman's face was written so much wisdom and gentleness Mother named me after her.

I think I felt it incumbent to love flowers after that. I took care of our flower garden in England, with mother by my side, and the flowers were my special responsibility, with their red, pink, white, and yellow colors and delicate leaves. But Mother grew distracted by the war, and suddenly the responsibility was mine all alone. It wasn't as easy, being alone (I wonder if that was foreshadowing), but it was better than being uprooted and transplanted to the country. (To a different country.) But flowers are needed everywhere, even in war. Just as life is. And I went, because my siblings would be there, and it was away from wars that trampled flowers and had no use for them. (It was only later I learned that some flowers are so precious wars are fought over them.)

And then, in the country…

I don't remember much of it. But sometimes I dream about it, about being planted in soil so rich and welcoming, with a sun so strong and so gentle, I learned to be strong and gentle too. And to live life with a grace that drew all eyes to the beauty of it. To wait in the court, till a word of peace and grace was needed, then to stand and walk and draw their eyes and to speak with the strength that came from having roots through all the soil in Narnia; to be alive because Narnia gave me its life and I in turn showed that life and beauty to all who came, and warned them gentle of the strength running through it. To be a glimpse of hope, a touch of gentle grace, to those suffering. To the mother beaver (Mrs. Beaver's granddaughter), grieving when her home flooded as a welcome to the castle that gave her hope and allowed her to breathe, watching her face change to the response beauty always calls forth. To be the first to welcome them back from war and remind them that peace dwells here; here, they could be hurt, and begin to heal. There was life enough there for them to heal. For the fauns to dance again, the centaurs to have the strength to look at the stars again, because I was strong enough to hold up their heads and gentle enough it wouldn't hurt.

Flowers grow everywhere. When we were transplanted back, when I lost the gentle, strong soil and sun of Narnia, I told myself that. I told myself it was enough.

But it wasn't, it wasn't, because when we were called back it took so long to be a Narnian again. To be Aslan's again. But He granted me to ride on His back again anyway, to go with Him to collect His army again, stand with His own, and to put forth all my strength in the aftermath of the battle to remind the Narnians of the life Narnia was so full of.

And then I was told it was the last time. That'd I'd never feel the Narnian sun again. And stepping through that doorway into our own world, I realised something.

Flowers may grow everywhere. Lilies don't.

So I went with my parents to America, and gave up trying to grow as Aslan's flower. What was the use, outside Narnia? A different soil, a different sun. So I looked at the girls around me and tried to grow into their beauty.

Then sorrow came, and I learned that what I'd been growing wasn't life. It wasn't enough to heal or help anyone, not even myself. And I was left with memories I'd tried to fade and family that wasn't there, and I withered.

It's better now. I think, if Mother saw me now, she'd see the wisdom and grace she wanted on my face. Because those are often gifts time gives, after sorrow comes. There is a reason lilies are carried to funerals. There is a reason. Their beauty and life are needed there, for healing for the deepest sorrows.

They're needed in a country still recovering from a war. And I'm growing into that role now, though the soil is harder and the sun harsher. But it just makes gentleness more apparent.

And I remember, sometimes, that my name also means innocence restored. And I hope, and pray, that I'll find a way to that. To the clearer dreams of Narnia and its life. To Aslan's flower, showing grace and life. The the wisdom and gentleness only He can give, but that can be given, even in England.

To being a graceful lily wherever He planted me. Because He can grow lilies anywhere.


	3. Prosperity

Disclaimer: Narnia, Etymology, England, Edmund, and his siblings do not belong to me. If they did, I would want to know how I came to own such an eclectic collection.

A/N: "Edmund: From the Old English elements _ead_ 'wealth, fortune' and _mund_ 'protection.'" That definition is taken from Behindthename . com. The Wikipedia definition (I know, I know, not _Wikipedia_ , as my professors once scolded) writes Edmund means "Prosperity" because of that combination.  
A/N2: Edmund gave me a good deal of trouble to write. I hope the end result is enjoyable, because I wrestled with it far too much to have a clear opinion.

Chapter 3: Prosperity

OOOOO

Susan and Lucy both have a story to tell about their names; Mother has told them. But I'd never asked her about mine. I wonder, though, why they chose _Edmund_. It couldn't be because they had a third child. Even before the war, another child was expensive, and they'd had two already. A boy and a girl; a perfect place to stop, the moderate people would agree. But they went and had another, and named me Prosperity.

If I wasn't sure that Aslan made such names _true_ , I'd say He allowed that name out of cruel irony. When I first came to the kingdom I was to prosper, I betrayed it to a witch.

But He rescued me, spoke with me, and after the victory, enthroned me with my siblings. Suddenly I had a whole kingdom to watch out for. A whole king I was supposed to prosper.

With my siblings. After all, Narnia would scarcely prosper without all four of its kings and queens. But often I wondered what my role was. And prayed, actually. Because I found myself charged with the system of justice and mercy in Narnia. I, who'd betrayed it, charged with its protection; I, a traitor, charged with its justice and mercy.

He who has been given mercy will have mercy required of him, I suppose.

So I took my Aslan-given wits, a library with floor-to-ceiling-shelves of helpful books, the advice of our wisest citizens, and a lot of my brother and sisters' time, and created a system of justice. With an emphasis on mercy.

And I did everything I could to prosper the people who gave me a second chance. Land disputes were most common at first; a hundred years of winter changes landmarks. Peter and I started going on mapping expeditions—me with a compass and needle, and him to keep me out of trouble—charting all of Narnia. Lucy started joining us, and we walked or rode through of all Narnia and found new homes for those who no longer had enough room. (I found to my surprise that horses need much, much more land than stags.) Giving Narnians a _good_ home seemed the first step to helping them prosper.

There were other disputes, too. Dwarven traditions and skills were jealousy held secrets, and once tribes started meeting again, arguments erupted. (Or rather, the dwarves embedded themselves in stone and refused to budge.) Their work was what most of our trade relied on, when the ships first started coming, and we needed the trade. Narnia had been isolated too long; and we found the islands Narnia owned were in sore need, and we had as yet nothing to give to them. But when they were arguing they couldn't be working—and listening to them just made my ears ring. Susan had the brilliant idea to give them other things to help them define their clans; I think she meant a coat of arms or something from the Other Place, but when we sat the chiefs down (and their wives, something I'd insisted on, as chiefs in general seemed to marry intelligently), we asked them what defined their clans, and found it to be a mix of location, what was made of the metals of that location, the types of items made, the family tree, all in addition to traditions in skill and "the right way to do things." And Susan, Aslan guard and keep her, gently and firmly helped each clan find its own identity. The chiefs spoke of their houses, their fathers; the wives spoke of the homes and the families. Each clan was so clearly separate. Suddenly the clan was more than metalworking secrets, and skill became a thing to be shared.

Which meant we had hundreds of dwarves eager to try new things. They created works of beauty and strength that established Narnia's reputation for the length of our rule and more. Trade poured in.

A new headache. The four of us shared this one, of strangers in our land who knew even less of Narnia's rules than its two-year-freed subjects. Strangers with wonders, and strangers with bad habits. We found walking among our ports—particularly having a port so close to the Cair—meant our example and our beliefs could be a rebuke to any sailor who thought tormenting animals was good fun, or ones who tried to bring the latest three-meter Calormen headdresses for the squirrels to wear. In the trees. And so we set an example in the ports, and on the advice of the beavers, mice, marshwiggles, and even merpeople, we set rules for the land near the sea. And guards.

Narnian ports became known for their safety and welcome as much as for their dwarf-made items.

And for their generosity.

Such generosity that it made me a bit uneasy; I wasn't sure it stayed on the side of fairness. The treasury of Cair Paravel was soon full of the most priceless items (ones we often gave out, especially if Lucy was along), but it was rare to see such things in our Narnians' homes. There were polished wooden dishes, metal eating utensils with intricate engravings for those with hands, curiously and carefully woven tapestries, but little of the gems, gold, and marble I saw in my trips abroad. And while I might prefer a welcome into a wooden home with a cheery feel, I couldn't help but wonder—was I living up to my name?

Worse—to Aslan's charge?

It didn't haunt me often. There was too much joy in our subjects' faces. But sometimes, later during the nights, I'd wonder if I'd done enough. If they had enough. Until one day, my brother caught me doing it.

"All right, Ed, out with it." I looked up from the scroll I truthfully hadn't been reading to see him sitting back in the chair at his desk and looking over at me.

"What?" I demanded.

"You haven't rustled your scrolls, scratched your pen on parchment, or cursed at a missive in half an hour." I smiled; Susan had spoken to me about my inability to be silent while working. "Something's on your mind."

I hesitated; but this was one of my siblings, and Aslan blessed me with them for a reason. "Do you ever think about our names, Peter?" He shook his head a bit, waiting. "I mean, the three of you are obvious. But mine meant riches and protection, and Narnia's safe as can be, thanks to you beating the giants last winter and Susan dispelling the tension with the Telmarines, but I t wonder if Aslan meant me to make Narnia prosper, to be rich. And we're not poor. But we're not _rich_ , either. Not Narnia as a whole." I paused. "Not if you compare us to some of the other nations, even with their poor being less well off than ours.

Peter sat back, his eyes gazing at nothing for a moment. I recognised that look; it's the King looking for a way to put his judgement into words. I let go of my scroll and sat back, waiting.

"I think your problems with the words," he said at length, coming back to look over at me. "You're using one standard of wealth—the common one, granted—but I wouldn't argue it's an accurate one."

I thought through that, trying to see what he meant. "What standard would you use?"

"Happiness and virtue, intertwined." My brother's eyes were glinting, warning me off as I tried to protest that those weren't a measurable standard. "A wealthy land where wealth alone is protected is Calormen." I was silenced. He didn't have to say that wasn't what we wanted, not for our Narnia. "You've fought for justice and mercy here in Narnia, and Aslan blessed it and brought it, from the halls of Cair to the Lantern Waste." He paused, smiling to see how intently I was listening. Knowing he was right. Knowing that here, maybe, was my role; here was the way Aslan used me to make my name a truth. "Narnia's riches are its people, and they're what you protect. That's our prosperity. _Edmund_."


	4. Rock

Disclaimer: Much as I would love to have created them, 'tisn't true; therefore they aren't mine. But Lewis left us much to build upon, and I have loved doing it.

A/N: Peter means "Stone"; Biblically, (Simon) Peter was given that by Christ, who then told Peter that Christ would build the Church on that rock. A cornerstone, the beginning of a good thing, the beginning of the foundation on which all else is built. Since this is written from Peter's perspective, I tried to capture more what made him so steady, strong, rather than how he was a rock, since people like him don't always realise what it would mean if they were gone; how much we need them.

 **Chapter 4: Rock**

I first walked into Narnia wearing a fur coat I didn't own (though my sister sensibly pointed out we weren't really taking them out of the wardrobe if the wood was inside it) and leading three siblings, one of whom I'd just apologized to and another I was angry at; he was close to hating me.

Not the greatest of beginnings for a king. And it got worse. We went to visit a Faun who saved my sister and found a note writing he was imprisoned. And suddenly I was the oldest sibling in a country that hated humans, agreeing to rescue the faun who rescued Lucy when we had no food and no idea where he was.

But we took a vote (not listening to my brother then), and decided to go forward anyway; and Aslan sent friends. So my first meal in Narnia was as a guest, sitting down to two beavers' food, and listening to Narnia's legends. The first items in Narnia that I owned were gifts, given to equip me for Aslan's army.

A strange road; but Aslan's roads are often strange. An apology started my adventure; generosity continued it; and effort led us to Aslan.

Aslan. Who rescued my brother, showed me Cair, and sent me to fight against His enemies. There was nothing strange about that road. There is only something wonderful.

Those memories were my beginning. Apology, generosity, and seeking Aslan. When He made me king above other Narnian kings, with my siblings at my side, it was those things that I remembered. Those, combined with Aslan's strength, shaped my reign.

Of course, we didn't quite know what we were doing. Who knows at the beginning that their labors will create a Golden Age, Narnia's Golden Age? But with Queen Susan to move us forward with a gentleness that made strength build instead of break, King Edmund to keep the path true and wise, and Queen Lucy to make it joyous and good, pleasant to walk on, it could not have been anything else.

I remember those feasts, other late nights with the three of them and a few other councilors, and court after court held for our subjects, face after face, and remember the deep joy of building Aslan's kingdom. There is no other like it, to see His kingdom coming.

But those times were an Age, and Ages end. The other faces faded, and I was left a boy again, in a borrowed fur coat, spilling out of a wardrobe with three siblings behind me.

But the needs of the three, my three, did not lessen when we returned. Once again, there was a nation devastated by a war. Once again, those around us needed all of our gifts, even if we didn't lead. We still served. So I lived by the same rules; humility, generosity, and a seeking of Aslan.

But I did not know how to seek Him in our world, this world we came back to. And without him, I was unsteady.

He found me. As He had in Narnia. By obedience. We went back, first, and Susan and I were too old to ever go back. I needed Aslan more than I ever had. Since all I had were His memories, I kept His commands. And His commands led me to Him, on a small country road while I studied with the professor. I was out walking. Seeking, again, wishing for a green hill by the sea with Aslan at the top.

Going past the fields and stone hedges falling into the road, I saw a soldier trying to hobble on one leg into a nearby church, to rest a bit. I gave him a shoulder to lean on. He was older than I was, and told me he was lucky to come home. I asked him what he was doing, down this road where no one else goes. He said he was seeking something. Someone. Laughs, slouching on the pew, breathing hard. I remember that from Narnia, pushing against what's at my back to know it's solid. He said he'd been seeking answers ever since the war. Sometimes he goes into a church and thinks he might've found it; but it doesn't last. He didn't think he'd ever find it on his own. I asked if he wanted the priest; he looked at me and I shrugged.

"It's someone who knows more than us, about the place you've almost found answers." He hesitated—none of us like admitting we need help, not till we've met Aslan and see how much we need His help. But he nodded, and I went through the back door towards the house beside the church, hoping to find the priest. Serving, as Aslan made me to do. And the priest, called to serve himself, came, and I listened, first to make sure I was not needed, and then caught by the God the priest described. The God who sounded so, so familiar. Both the soldier and I left with Bibles, to find more answers for ourselves. I saw the soldier to the nearest train station, a few miles away, and he taught me how to salute a farewell. And then I walked back to the professor's, and spent the night reading. The professor found me, candles burned down and replaced, the next morning, and we talked. And talked, and talked, and wrestled with the truth, and there He was. Aslan. Christ. The rock on which the world stumbles but that was made a cornerstone. I had everything I needed once again.

And I thanked Him, that He found me, that He made me High King and then made me a boy back in a country that needed Him, and that He made me a brother. Because in all those things, I saw His kingdom coming once again, and I knew again, there is no joy like it. And if I was a boy growing into a man, with nothing much but what I had with me and siblings to lean on, He had made much with that once before. I was ready, if He wanted to do so again.


	5. Fruitful

Chapter 5: Fruitful

Disclaimer: You cannot own people, you can only be given their hearts. And you cannot own a story, you can only be given a portion of it, and give yourself to it; and if it's a story like Narnia, it often bears fruit.

A/N: I had thought this series was finished, but Laura Andrews requested I continue it with Eustace, Jill, Digory, and Polly, and once I looked into their names I was curious as to whether I could. So...here's me trying? Thank you, Laura Andrews, for the idea, because it'd never have occurred to me otherwise.  
And Eustace, despite being un-dragoned, is just as stubborn as ever, and his story is quite long.

A/N2: Per Google: " **Eustace** (/ˈjuːstɪs/ YOOS-tis) is the rendition in English of two phonetically similar Greek given names: Εὔσταχυς (Eústachys) **meaning** "fruitful", "fecund"; literally "abundant in grain""; its Latin equivalents are Fæcundus/Fecundus."

Diary,  
Reep started it. We were on board the _Dawn Treader_ , after Aslan had undragoned me, sitting around and telling stories. Lucy was telling the Narnians about how names in that Other Place were chosen, about how parents sometimes looked into the meanings, or sometimes had stories attached, and Reepicheep asked for the story of her name. And then the stories of King Peter's, Queen Susan's, and King Edmund's. (It feels weird to call them kings and queens. I mean, they're my cousins. But sometimes when we're together and their majesty is revealed in tones that leaves me feeling queer, and I wonder how I'd ever missed it. I've never been a king, and I wonder sometimes why Aslan dragged me into His world when I'm so clearly not them.) Lucy's name meant _light_. Even I could tell it fit. And Susan's was a graceful flower, and Peter's meant rock, and he's what we lean on, Lucy said, and Edmund's meant prosperity, and he was the one with common sense about wealth at Deathwater island. They all fit. And then Reep asked about my name.

None of us had any idea what it meant. A few days after we got back I looked it up. Something to do while avoiding my mother.

And it means _fruitful_.

I'm as weirded out by that as by my place in the English-Narnians. I mean, before Narnia, if you'd looked at me, there wouldn't have been one fruit Aslan would have picked. I was a bully and a coward.

Edmund was traitor. He reminds me of that when I talk about what I was before. And he's born lots and lots of fruit.

I suppose I have too. I'm braver now, even when I'm sick to my stomach. And I follow Aslan. But I'm still not sure about bearing fruit.

Diary,  
I reread this. And I had to laugh when I read the entry about my name. Not out loud, because mother wouldn't like it. But there's a story I should write down so I remember it.

I made a new friend. I went back to school, and all the things I'd been trying to grow had to grow fast or stop growing. But all the things I'd been trying to get better at stayed. I stood up to Them. I was brave. And I thought, on the worst days, that Aslan would be pleased. But I didn't think it was making that much of a difference.

Then I walked behind the gym, looking to be alone, and I came across a girl crying. And I asked her what was the matter. I didn't think about it then, but it's one more area where I grew, right?

And she got mad at me. Sometimes I wonder why Aslan makes doing nice things so _hard_. But I saw she was mad because she wasn't done crying, and offered her a peppermint. And then it got easier, and I found out she - _and_ Them - had noticed I'd changed. They weren't who I wanted to notice, but at least someone had.

And she asked me why I'd changed. And see, I'd been taking a walk so I could have some time to think about Narnia, and really missing my cousins, because I wanted to talk about it with someone. So I told her a little bit about what had happened.

Till _They_ came back for her. And Jill and I looked at each other, and we got away. Fast, and as quietly as we could, and we headed for a door both of us were hoping and wishing was unlocked. And it was, and it opened into _Narnia_.

And we had some aweful and some grand adventures there. I hadn't grown nearly as much as I thought I had; I was brave, but I wasn't a very good companion to Jill or Puddleglum. I did lots wrong. But Aslan helped, and He brought us back, and we even got to do some good _here_ , at this wretched school. And Jill's my friend now.

I didn't think that had anything to do with my name. But two days ago the Hols started, and I'd written to my cousins, and Mum and Dad, and they all agreed I could visit the Pevensies for the Hols. (My cousins are closer, and Dad has a series of lectures planned so they'll be busy). But Jill wrote home too, and since the school's gotten better, her family trusts it more, and they said yes when Jill asked if she could go with me.

It was weird to be starting on another journey together. I didn't know what to say. But I tried taking her bags - like Peter and Edmund would have, and she said thank you, and didn't say much. And she just stayed _quiet_. So I started talking about my cousins, telling her all about their time in Narnia, but she finally said I was a very bad storyteller and could I please be quiet. And it wasn't very nice, but it sounded more like Jill.

I told her I was just trying to help, since she was meeting four _complete strangers_ (and my aunt and uncle). And she told me to _shut up_ , because she _knew_ she was meeting four strangers, and they were _kings and queens_ , and I realised she was nervous.

I should have thought of that. I was a bit nervous on meeting Peter and Susan once I knew who they were (1). Then again, I was nervous because they'd known me before, and I'd been an ass (2). Jill wouldn't have any problems. She's a _Narnian_. More like me than the Pevensies, though.

Still, I ended up telling her about me meeting them, and how gracious they were (especially Susan), and how I kind of fumbled awkwardly and they loved talking with me anyway. She didn't tell me I was a horrible storyteller that time.

I asked her about her family after that, and somehow the rest of the train ride passed with us telling stories about family. And rehashing stories about Narnia. ("We should get it right, Scrubb. You know they're going to ask us.")

Then it was our station. I grabbed the bags and we got out, and there, on the platform, all four of them were waiting for us.

Lucy was beaming. And Susan was smiling in a way that makes me feel embarrassed but glad to be there even if I'd done something silly like just broke her favorite china vase, and Ed and Peter were grinning, and it was almost like being back in Narnia again.

"Hello!" they chorused cheerfully, and Peter and Edmund each grabbed a bag, and Lucy and Susan were already introducing themselves to Jill, and before I could make sure it went well, Peter was pulling me back to where they'd been standing.

"There's someone you need to meet," he said, and led me up to a very old man with shaggy white hair, which grew over most of his face as well as on his head (3). He was so odd-looking I almost wanted to laugh, but Peter was greeting him with so much respect I checked my laughter. "This is the professor." Peter looked at me. "He was the very first Narnian who also came back to England."

"Along with Polly," the professor said. "She stayed back to prepare lunch." He held his hand out to me, and I shook it, and wished I hadn't almost laughed. He had the wisdom of someone who's met Aslan. "It will be the first meeting of all the Narnians, and I am so very glad you're here, Eustace."

I think I mumbled something about being glad to be there too, and tried to put my hands in my pockets when he let go, and dropped the bag, and Edmund caught it. We bundled into the car (the professor had borrowed it from somewhere), and Jill was already quite at home with Susan and Lucy. I kind of sulked in the back seat. But I think Lucy noticed, and she tried to draw me in, and between that and the professor asking polite, kind questions of Jill, and everyone asking about our trip to Narnia, it felt like home soon after.

"Polly" - who insisted we call her Aunt Polly - had the same gift, and between them getting food ready and Peter grilling things on the fire and Edmund getting the drinks, Jill and I were sitting watching a whirlwind of activity and feeling like guests in the castle they kept mentioning, that we saw from a distance - Cair Paravel.

Anyway - this is getting rather long, and Mother'll be up soon to make sure I have my windows open before I go to bed for the night - we ate, and they asked us all about Narnia, and I'll try to write about that another time, because Lucy has an absolute _gift_ for seeing how Aslan works things, and Peter has great advice about dealing with consequences for doing a bad thing (something about making decisions as the High King, I suppose, helps with that - he mentioned a time he was called back to help Caspian win back his throne and led all his siblings and someone they called the D.L.F. astray, in spite of Aslan's guidance, and leading them right into an arrow ambush), and I wish Dad could meet the professor.

But at the end, as dessert was served, Susan rose and proposed a toast - to the Professor, for hosting the Friends of Narnia, for his hospitality and generosity, and for making his home ours, for the next few days. And Edmund rose after to propose a toast to the travelers who came for very far away - and he meant Aunt Polly - and the ones who traveled a few steps from their bedroom, and he grinned at Peter. Peter's living with the professor for right now.

And the professor rose and proposed a toast, one by one, for all the people seated there. He's scientifically good at seeing the good things in people and pointing them out. And when it came to me - well, I'm not going to put down the stuff he said about me growing and changing and all that, because I know I'll always remember it, but he said this one other thing. "And to Eustace, who brought us one more friend of Narnia."

All the growing I'd been doing led to this, to one more Narnian. To Jill sitting around a table with my cousins, having seen Aslan, and spoken with Him, and done what He said. She noticed what I'd been trying to do - to _be_ \- and listened, and then we went on an adventure together, and suddenly there was one more English-Narnian. Or rather Friend of Narnia. And that's the best kind of fruit to have.

OOOOO

(1) If you're interested (though if you're reading my works I can't imagine you haven't read elektrum's), elektrum wrote an incredible story of Eustace meeting Peter for the first time after the VOTD called "When We Were Kings."  
(2) I mean that term in the sense of being an obdurate, infuriating donkey; it's what Edmund calls Eustace in _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ : "you were only an ass, but I was a traitor." Please bear in mind that's from memory, so it may not be word for word.  
(3) The description is cobbled together from _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ , and is Lewis's words, not mine. Also, I am assuming that Eustace would not have had a chance to meet the professor yet; they got back, finished out their summer, and then the term started, and from his first conversation with Jill in _The Silver Chair_ it was his first term where he'd changed. I just don't see Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta, if they've already put themselves out to host two other children, putting themselves out more to take them on a trip to meet people, or adding an elderly professor.


	6. Child of Jove

Chapter 6: Child of Jove

Disclaimer: Yes, I lived thousands of years ago and invented Roman mythology (it was quite original, let me tell you). And then I time-traveled and gave Lewis all my ideas and he wrote them. And then I time-traveled here to prove that all of this is mine. Weaving a story wasn't enough; I wanted one that was written throughout history. But keeping records in years I didn't exist in became a hopeless task and I can't prove any of it now, since I broke the time machine.

A/N: There aren't many clear websites about the meaning of "Jill." Many said that is just means "Gill," but I wasn't about to write a story about a name that meant the breathing apparatus of a fish. However, several websites agreed that the name came from one that meant "Child of Jove," which was derived from "Child of Jupiter," the Roman god.

OOOOO

Most people assume it was my father who named me "child of Jove"; after all, he's the storyteller of the family. Most people are wrong. It was my mother. She liked the idea of putting my father in the role of a Roman god, handsome, commanding, and with lightning in his eyes. Without the unfaithfulness, of course. She liked to say she'd married a man who could be a god.

But then they gave "Jill" to me. Jove's daughters were beautiful; one of them was _Venus_. The others? Diana, goddess of the moon. And I think the goddess of spring was his daughter. (I listen to my dad's stories.) But sometimes when I listen, and he sits and tells me of the beauty so bright it reflected light during the darkest nights, I think the contrast would be funny if it didn't hurt inside. Goddess of the moon vs. poor, plain Jill. I'm _not_ a goddess. "Jill" really doesn't fit me.

Add to that - my last name is Jill _Pole_.

 _They_ loved my last name. I introduced myself to one of them, Edith Winterblott, not knowing who she was.

"Pole?" she sneered. She looked me up and down slowly, and I wanted to run away from the maliciousness she smiled with. "Skinny as a beanpole, Jill Pole," and she began laughing. "Come meet the new girl! Skinny as a beanpole, Jill Pole!" They began that way. "Beanpole! Plain Pole!" they'd call down the hall if the teachers weren't around. Always, always, they caught my last name up and slapped it in my face, to remind me I had no looks and no worth.

But it was worse when They cornered me. They'd pinch my arms, hold them up and call them Poles. They'd tell me my parents sent me here because they didn't care about me; no one would ever love me, skinny beanpole. If I was truly a child of Jove, he never cared enough to make me beautiful, or to rescue me from my last name. He never struck them with lightning, or came thundering down.

They drove me to hiding places again and again, and one day a boy walked into mine, hands in his pockets. I showed Jove's own temper with him, but he - he reacted differently. And it was nice not to be alone, after a while.

But They found us, and we ran, right into another world. I met another God there. He - He wasn't like Jove. He was everything I'm not, brave, beautiful, strong, and patient, even when I kept messing up. He met me right after I'd almost killed one of His own. He _knew_ what I was. And He still went to a stream, he _waited_ for me, and sent me to rescue one of His princes.

And I _still_ messed up. I lost my temper with the boy I'd almost killed over and over; I cared more about a warm bath and hot food than the rescue He'd trusted me with; I forgot what He'd told me to remember, to say every night. If He'd come and told me the exact same things _They_ did, He would have been right.

But He didn't. He led us to the Prince in spite of my mistakes, and led us back to Narnia. And then He came to take Eustace and I home.

I thought He'd be glad to be done with me, once He told us we couldn't stay in His country. But He _wasn't_ done with us; he gave us one more task. We were going to take on _Them_. I had a whip; Eustace and the king Eustace had their swords. Use the flat side, Aslan said. I'm never going to forget that task. Him beside us, His back to them, we rushed on them. I had one second where I wondered if I'd be too scared, but Aslan was right there. I _couldn't_ be afraid. And their faces became as scared as I ever was. They were just kids. Bad kids, and I used the whip, but just kids. It meant they were probably wrong about me. I wished I'd had time to tell Aslan thank you before the wall mended.

I kept my clothes from His world. I'd reach out and touch them on days when I'd lost my temper again, or wondered if I was His own. I even wore them to a fancy dress ball once (1). And on Eustace's advice, I began learning skills like archery, and woodmanship. He was right; later we needed them, because we _were_ called back into Narnia, to rescue a king this time. And to fight with him. Then Narnia's end came, and it was the beginning of something new, and years and years later, I was talking with Eustace, and telling him about my name, and how I was so glad it'd never been true, that I'd always been Aslan's own, not Jove's. And he ribbed me about my once-quick temper a bit, but after a moment he smiled.

"You say your dad told you about Jove's daughter who reflected beauty in the darkest night? It just, you know, sounds a bit like you rescuing Puzzle in the darkest night in Old Narnia," he said, smiling. "Being Jove's daughter didn't do anything for you, but once you became Aslan's…" He shrugged.

"Last to me, as one untimely born (2)," I muttered, caught by that idea. "He changed you from being a horrid beast, and me from being a plain daughter of Jove." I smiled, full of a happiness too large not to share. It was incredibly good to be a daughter of Aslan's, to be loved so much I was priceless.

OOOOO

(1) Taken from _The Silver Chair._

(2) I don't remember where Paul says this, but it's one of his quotes.


	7. Humble

Chapter Seven: Humble

" _The highest compliment I ever heard paid to [his manners] was by a nun. She said that Mr. Williams's manners implied a complete_ offer _of intimacy without the slightest_ imposition _of intimacy_. _He threw down all his own barriers without even implying that you should lower yours.  
_ _But here one of my collaborators breaks in upon me to say that this is not, after all, a true picture; that he, for his part, always found Williams a reserved man, one in whom, after years of friendship, there remained something elusive and incalculable. And that also seems to be true, though I doubt whether 'reserved' is the right name for it. I said before that he gave to every circle the whole man: all his attention, knowledge, courtesy, charity, were placed at your disposal. It was a natural result of this that you did not find out much about_ him _– certainly not those parts of him which our own needs or interests did not call into play. A selfless character, perhaps, always has this mysteriousness: and much more so when it is that of a man of genius."  
_ —Lewis, in the Introduction to _Essays Presented to Charles Williams_ (and my favorite part of the book), and also, I would argue, a good example of what a humble man looks like. I had a very hard time writing this chapter, since humility is not one of the best known virtures in my sphere.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Really and truly; Aunt Polly would highly object if I claimed her.

A/N: Google: "Of Latin origin meaning 'little' or 'humble'. Possible also derived from Molly which was derived from Mariah or Miryam - thus 'sea of bitterness' or 'long wished for child'." From what I can tell, the Polly in Lewis's work isn't derived from Mary, so I am going with the Latin origin.

"I'm not humble," Polly protested. Her long-time friend (and adventuring companion, but most of the world didn't know about that part of their odd friendship) looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Oh, stop it. I know it's the sort of thing a humble person _would_ say, but it's true."

Digory, dressed in the army uniform he'd be shipping away in tomorrow, set his teacup down. The two of them were having tea in a shop before he left, and somehow the discussion had wandered around to what made a good soldier, or a good citizen. Discussions with Digory usually ended up in philosophical areas, Polly reflected as she watched him mentally line up his argument.

"You were going to be a teacher, before the war and all the need for volunteers. I can't think of another life, other than motherhood, that's more totally dedicated to other people." Sadness flickered over his face, sadness for her loss, and the losses both knew were coming. They'd both heard of the blood that could be shed in war, after all. And they'd seen the ultimate cost of the wrong side winning.

"But what's that got to do with humility?" Polly asked, bringing the subject back to their debate. "That's generosity, or duty, or an endless supply of patience some days. That's not humility."

"Someone who knows me very well once wrote, 'Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less' (1). A teacher's life is dedicated to thinking of and serving other people. Motherhood, too, but pride tends to express itself through their view of their children. But you've already got it, Polly. Tell me, in our adventures, how often were you thinking about yourself, instead of other people?"

Polly paused. The first time she saw Digory, she noted his dirty face. It had been curious, especially for a child whose parents didn't allow getting dirty. She admitted she hadn't been thinking about herself at all; and then in Charn, Jadis's presence demanded all attention (even if she hadn't given Polly any). And then through the whole adventure – the whole beginning of their friendship, actually – Digory had been losing his mother. It wasn't something that allowed for self-focus, more than a child usually would have.

"And then you spent a large part of your university years listening to other people," Digory pointed out. "Even with me, we often talk about whatever _I_ find interesting."

"We both find it interesting!"

"Yes, but how much of that is because you're interested in the other person, to the exclusion of thinking about yourself?"

"People are interesting," Polly chided back.

"Not as interesting as ideas."

"That's just because you like books better than people."

"Probably," Digory allowed. "And that's something I'm working to change. But you don't have to work to change it; it's already there. And it's a valuable trait in either citizen or soldier; it allows for taking orders, caring for others, and putting pride aside. And it's something you've got in spades. Don't sell yourself short, Polly."

The waiter came and Digory caught his attention to request the check before Polly could reply. In the hustle and hurry of goodbyes, admonitions to be safe, and the last twinkle and smile between good friends, Polly didn't have time to argue more. Besides, she'd started her new volunteering job at the hospital the week before, and she was going to be late for her shift.

The war went on, and Polly found herself thinking of Digory's idea more and more often, as scarred, wounded, or dying men poured back into the hospital in London. It was the nurses who were interested in the soldiers as people who could often see past the wounds and offer more than pity; the ones who looked and saw souls instead of soldiers who burnt out fast or not at all. And those were the nurse who were easiest to work with, and who had little trouble setting aside their own concerns – yes, I'll take that extra shift; here, let me go get you a cup of coffee; sit down, I've got that call from the patient. They set them aside because they saw the weariness of the person asking for the favor, answering the call. And she wondered how those ideas were holding up for Digory in the middle of the war.

And if he was in the hospital anywhere, and if there were good nurses there who would take care of him. And how much he was hurting.

One shift, after the war had ended, she too finally burned herself out. She'd thought they'd reached the end, the peace signed, the bombing flights stopped, and finally, finally it was over. She'd thought of Charn so often, of Jadis's descriptions of pouring out the blood of her soldiers like water, and yet Polly knew they couldn't stop fighting. But then they won. They _won_ , but if this was victory, their hands were too small to hold the victory (2) they'd fought with everything for. But at least it was over.

Only it wasn't. Not for the nurses. All had started to smile a little more, to reassure one another that it was almost over. And then the soldiers started coming home. And the hospital didn't have enough hands. Nor enough beds, and Polly spent all day laying out mattresses between the beds, and tucking the sheets neatly onto the floor, and helping soldiers with one leg lower themselves down almost to the floor. And she wanted nothing more than to go somewhere and cry.

Because they'd thought it was over too. And all they found for their homecoming was a mattress on the floor and a tired-out nurse. Polly couldn't take anymore of the pain in their eyes, and she finished the last incoming soldier for the day, and went to the bottom floor of the hospital and hid in an empty waiting room, covering her face so she wouldn't see the chairs telling of all the people who should be waiting for the broken soldiers and weren't.

She stayed after her shift ended. She didn't want to go home and she didn't want to stay. Moving was too hard; staying hurt. She heard the clock chime the quarter-hour past, and still didn't move. In a bit. Just a bit.

Two hands gently gripped her wrists and tugged. She looked up – ready to see one more person who needed help she'd need to give – and saw Digory.

"Come on, old girl," he said quietly. "I'm taking you home."

She laughed, softly, helplessly. Of course Digory would show up after four years and just tell her he was taking her home. But his hand was under her elbows, lifting her up, and if he was as gentle as a nurse, he was still as strong as a soldier who was whole. He slipped her arm through his and escorted her out of the hospital.

"How'd you find me?" she asked. She wasn't willing to ask about his own hurts yet, if he was walking; and Digory was one of the few who wouldn't mind.

"You wrote about the hospital you worked at, I knew the shifts you worked, and when you didn't come out at the end of your shift, I went to find you. Another nurse – Tara – saw you when she came in, and pointed me in the right direction." He didn't keep talking, like the old Digory would have, and Polly drew together her strength to look at him.

The twinkle in his eyes was gone, and his smile; he had the look all the soldiers from the front had, the one the nurses called "haunted." But he had the same resolute strength of someone who has seen good and sworn themselves to it; he hadn't lost that.

"I thought about you," he said suddenly; Polly knew he'd seen her looking at him. "The little girl, smart in Charn and brave in Narnia, humble and helping in England." He looked at her. "I learned it, Polly. I learned to value people. You can't see that much death and not realize what a precious thing _life_ is. Life's not much without ideas, but it's worth the world."

Polly thought wearily of all the life she'd fought death to keep, to restore. She'd never given up (though she wanted to), so she supposed she thought it worth the world as well. But she was too tired tonight. "You won," she said softly instead. She could give that much, even tonight.

"Come on," Digory said quietly. "Home. You've won too. Tomorrow both of us can start living again, living and thinking of others first."

"Second," Polly said. She smiled; it was suddenly good to be disagreeing with Digory again. "Aslan first, then others."

And Digory began to laugh.

One soldier laughing, Polly thought. Even tired, with Aslan's name she'd done that much. She could do more for the rest of the broken tomorrow.

She could think of them first.

OOOOO

(1) Lewis wrote this somewhere, and I don't remember where, so I can't check the wording. But this is an approximate representation of what he said. And I felt it fit Polly; in _The Magician's Nephew_ she seems much more focused on Digory than on herself.  
(2) Tolkien's dwarfs say this when they try to retake Moria the first time, soon after the mountain fell.

A/N: I know I said I would't be posting anything today, but I'd forgotten I already had this written. It is unedited, so please forgive any mistakes (and point them out for me to fix!). I also have one minute till my writing group, if that lets you know how close it came. :)


	8. Lost One

Chapter Eight: The Lost One

Disclaimer: The Lost Ones belong to James Barrie, Narnia to Lewis, and Digory to Aslan. I don't believe my name is anywhere in that sentence.

A/N: Google: "The name Digory is a boy's name meaning 'lost one'."

"Professor?"

Professor Kirk put down the wood he was carving into a lion and looked up with a twinkle in his eye as Lucy came into his tiny workshop. She had that look on her face that meant she was going to ask one of the questions that led to interesting talks. She was one of his favorite conversationalists.

And she was followed by five of his other favorites, her three siblings, her cousin, and their new-found friend, Jill. (He chuckled sometimes over Aslan choosing a child that was called after a Roman god, but then again, Aslan did look after the lost.) He set down his knife as well, dusted his hands, and leaned back.

"Dear me, what called all of you together? Surely you haven't lost more of my fur coats?"

Lucy smiled, that lovely, light-filled smile that brightened a room like sunlight. "Remember when you gave the toast yesterday, and we talked about Eustace's name meaning fruitful?" Her cousin fidgeted with his shirtsleeves as she spoke, but the rest of their attention was on the Professor himself.

"Yes, my dear?"

"We were just wondering - we learned yesterday Aunt Polly's name means humble - what does _your_ name mean?"

"Ah," he said, leaning back and sighing. He smiled sadly. "My name comes from a French word, Queen Lucy, and it means 'lost one.' It suited me once, as much as 'Graceful Lily' suits your sister Susan," he said, nodding to the elder queen, who smiled back graciously. The Professor thought back, back to a time he had been very, very young.

"Polly and I have told you the story of how we got the rings that led us into Narnia," he began, "but I don't think we've told you how we first met. We lived, side by side, in adjoining houses in London. I was crying. Not a good beginning for a boy, but I had good reason. I'd just lost everything a child needs. I'd lost my home, with all the joys of a house in the country. I'd lost my father, who had to go to India for a very long time, which is forever to a young child. I'd lost my sense of safety, for my uncle we were living with was mad, and we found out later he should not have been trusted in a house where there were small children, as you know. And I was losing my mother. That afternoon I also lost my dignity, for I went outside into the yard and blubbered, streaking my face as I wiped tears away. I was truly lost.

And it was then that Aslan sent someone to find me. He works in our world too, you know. Yes, indeed, think of the logic of it. How could we get from this world to Narnia if He had no power in this world? Bless me, what do they teach in these schools?

After Polly found me, I was a little less lost. I had a friend. But I was still losing the last thing I needed very much, my mother. Aslan sent me to Narnia, and sent me to get an apple for him, and from that apple, as you know, grew the tree that bore a fruit that meant life to my mother. But in the process, I had found more than that, I'd found courage. To get the apple, I had to face evil; I had to choose Aslan. Jadis, in a strange way, helped me to be found. I'd seen her, I'd seen Aslan, and I knew which one I'd have to choose. It can help people, you know, to have to face a choice directly.

I chose Aslan, my mother grew well with the apple from another world, and I had a friend. Shortly after that my father came back as well, and we were given a marvelous house. You would think, children, that after so much good, I would never be lost again. And truly, when I discovered the hymn with the line "I once was lost, but now I'm found," I sang it with all my might (1).

But there's often times, you young ones, where a past experience doesn't seem like much compared to the unpleasant present. So when I lost almost everything the second time, I lost myself too. Ivy, Betty, and Margaret went to find other work, and Mrs. Macready stayed on for the new owners, but I walked out of the house that had the wardrobe in it - that had Narnia in it - and wondered if I wasn't worthy of Narnia anymore. Once again I was truly lost."

"But you aren't now," Lucy said anxiously. "Right?"

The Professor smiled. "Yes, my dear, I am found once again."

"How did He find you the second time?"

"The first time He sent a witch," the Professor mused, almost to himself. But then he smiled at Peter. "The second time He sent a king." The High King looked back to him, dignity and acceptance in his nod. "Your brother was my rock in that term; with him so close, Narnia could not be lost to me. And he corresponded so much with his brother, that between his strength and Edmund's wisdom it wasn't long before I prospered."

"Why did you need two such different people?" Susan inquired, her voice thoughtful.

The Professor smiled again. "My dear child, the first time I didn't know who I needed. I thought it was my mother. The second, it was very clear, I needed to remember I had not lost _all_ I had. I still had my learning and my wits. Aslan sent me a king to remind me that He had made me fit for such company. Goodness gracious me, He's sent a whole company of them to me now."

"So it was in helping others both times that you were found," Edmund said, smiling deeply. "Sowing the tree meant choosing Aslan, and accepting Peter into your home to teach brought him here."

"And now I have seven friends from Narnia." The professor took off his glasses, wiping them on his sleeve, since his shirt-front was covered with wood carvings. "It's not likely I'll be lost again, is it?"

* * *

Epilogue:

Not long after, the Seven Friends of Narnia climbed aboard a railway train, and never disembarked. Yet they left all the same.

Lucy lived with the Light that is the Life of man.

Edmund could lay his task at the feet of one whose kingdom would never end and always prosper.

Peter heard the rock on which he had stood, which gave him strength to hold up all the others, say "Welcome home."

Eustace saw the fruit of his last labors in the hearts of Narnians who had stayed faithful because of his actions, who had fought to the last because he of his courage.

Jill was so beautiful at first the last Narnian king did not recognise her, crowned as she was as Aslan's daughter.

Polly had an eternity to think of others, to laugh with them and love them and see them with wonder, for there were no broken ones there.

And Digory, the professor who had once been a blubbering, lost boy, was eternally found, and home. The Lion had made him worthy of Narnia.

* * *

(1) _The Last Battle_ was written in 1956, and "Amazing Grace" became popular (it was written earlier) in the 1960s, so I'm saying those are close enough the Professor would know that line. :)

Response to Anonymousme: I admit, I read your review on chapter 1 and felt a slight twinge of worry - I would say Lucy's is one of the best, and perhaps not a good idea to set the standard by. :) I honestly wrote them as they occurred to me - and I find it much easier to write girls than boys. I'm still working at my skill on the latter. I am really, really glad you liked the Peter/Edmund interaction; that part was fun to write. And I would agree Peter's was a bit rushed - I wasn't quite sure what I was doing, and it showed. Second to last :), you mentioned "I'm pretty sure that Edmund's words to Eustace are accurate word for word [you were only an ass, but I was traitor]. I always wished that someone expounded on that somewhat. Maybe you...? However, please, please don't unless you make it really, really good," and I was wondering what you wanted expounded? The time Edmund tells Eustace that story, or something else? Just curious. And last, I will also admit that I'm a bit ambivalent towards Digory/Polly pairings - as far as I can tell it's not explicitly cannon, but could be. I've always known those who have loved what you love will feel like home. And there are times that idea is very well written. Have you read "The Hands of a Carpenter" by Dearheart? It's a Digory/Polly story that also has that homelike friendship hinting at much, much more. There's also "Think of Me" by King Caspian the Seafarer, which is less of friendship and more of love; though that is not the main focus of the story.  
I also updated the formatting for "One Year" based on your suggestion, and I hope you like the changes!


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